Letters to Mello
by Underestimation
Summary: After Mello has died, Near leaves letters by his grave.


The First of February, 2013

I could lie and say I don't know how to start writing this.

But I do, Mello. I really do.

I know that I wanted to start this by telling you how brave you were. I don't think you ever cracked your pokerface around anyone. But I knew how scared you were. I saw you, on a camera we -The SPK, I mean- installed into the truck. But even when you were crying, I never saw you as anything lower than brave. I saw your shoulders shake, as you bowed your head. And I hate myself for it. I never thought I would, as I was raised to be a selfish little arrogant child, who only looks out for himself, and is willing to tear down anyone in his way. But I do. I loathe myself more than I hate L. More than I hate Kira. More than I hate society. But even more than I hate myself, and L, and Kira, and everyone else in this stupid world of ours, I hate that I never got to tell you. And I hate that that isn't what this letter is supposed to be about.

They tell me your name is Mihael. Mihael Keehl. It feels weird when I repeat it, but it's okay. It's pretty, even if I can't pronounce it without a bitter smile. They, meaning the people at your funeral. Linder tells me they worked at the first orphinage you lived in. It's so funny to hear stories of a little blonde nuisance running about and wrecking havoc. Smashed your window, did you? Although, I can't say I'm surprised. It wouldn't be the first time you broke something fragile. Oh, look, there's me dragging things down, once more. Then again, I suppose this was going to happen one way or another, with the fact that I'm about to go to leave this at a gravestone. I don't know if I can visit it again, Mello. But I have to, if this letter is ever going to make the entire way. Sending Linder or Giavanne wouldn't really be the same. They'd probably read it rather than actually deliver it anyway.

I wish you could read this. Maybe you'd finally know and accept that I actually do have feelings. I'm not a robot, no matter how often I play with them. I'm just smart, Mello. And ignorance is hard when you can see through your eyelids.

I wish you could have been there. When Kira fell. One of the members of the Japanese Police shot him as he attempted to kill me. He was hysterical. It was pathetic. I know you would have liked to laugh at him, you were kind of twisted like that. But a good kind of twisted, I guess. The best kind you can get out of a childhood the orphanage manager tells me you had. It helped you, I think. You strived to be better because of it, and it made you who you were. Even though that person hated me from the very core of their being, I would have rathered that than to have met any different version of the Mello I knew.

I wish you were alive. I'm not supposed to say -well, write- things like that, but I do. I miss you, even though I'm not supposed to. Any part of me that could have was attempted to be burned out throughout being raised at Wammys. It was all supposed to go away. But 'supposed to's aren't really going to stop them, are they? Ah, sometimes I can hear you in the back of my head, you know. After I say something that makes the rest believe I'm just a robot even more, I can hear it. A quick snap of 'twerp' in the back of my brain, like the rubberbands you flicked at me in the middle of class. Back when you were more immature, too young to know any of the foul language you used later. I miss those too. The profanity. The slaps, the punches, the kicks. I miss them all. Because they all meant you were alive. They all left marks that said 'Hey, I hate this kid because he's smarter than I am.'

Do you want to know a secret, Mello? Being smart isn't all that fun. Because whenever I try to convince myself that you faked it, that you got away, I know I'm too smart to know that I'm wrong. You're dead. And it really is all my fault. In all honesty, one of the things I don't know, is now, with you…gone, how will I survive? What is a yin to do without a yang? A winter without a summer? A moon without a sun? A blizzard without a heatstroke? Because I relied on you. I know you thought I was independent, and antisocial, and completely repulsed at the idea of interaction at all times, but I relied on you. You made things worth it all. You made me remember that there are people out there strong enough to make it through so much. That there's more to everything than just winning, even though you yourself didn't believe that, it was really just your presence that taught you that.

Just…please, Mello. Please don't be dead. I'll do anything, if you just come back. I'll give you the title. I'll give you the SPK. Anything, just please don't make me accept this reality. I can't do it. I can't. I tried to pray for you! I got down on my knees, I did. If only you could have seen me…I looked absolutely ridiculous. I tried to tell him, that God you believed in. I tried to tell him, that if he had to, he could kill me. Because I'm really nothing special. I could never bring the sort of flame you did to the world. I was just a candle…you're like a forest fire, Mello. And that could do so much more for everyone else than just a few solved cases. But I know that I prayed more selfishly than that. I asked to see your face again. Not so burned and damaged like I know what's resting in the casket. But alive, and laughing. Or sharp, and ready to snap down anyone who defies you. I want to admire you from a distance again. I want to be a little child, who would stare and wonder why that damned title meant so much to you. After I got no reply, I became a little more desperate. I asked that, if you really had to be dead, that please, please…I thought to myself, 'If you really are there, somewhere, please let him be happy. In heaven, or in nothingness. If there really is a soul you've so selfishly ripped out of my reach, please put it in a good place. I really would hate it if you dished him so carelessly in with everyone else. If you have a trophy case, up there, or wherever those Christians believe you are, store it at the top. Polish it every day, and don't ever, ever let it fade. And maybe, just every once in a while, could you slip him my letters?'.

But I know it won't happen.

Because God doesn't exist.

I love you, Mello.

-Nate


End file.
